Inside Out
by StillHaddicted
Summary: Set in season 7. An unexpected visit will put House in an uncomfortable position, and force him to deal with things he thought he had left behind. But that won't stop him from tackling a challenging case, with the help of a very special partner.
1. Chapter 1

_I wrote this story a couple of years ago, after I fought with myself for a while whether to give this complex – and crazy – idea a shot or not. The start might be a little rough and scary, but if you bear with it you will get a story all about the strength and power of Huddy love…and something else you didn't see coming._

1

"Done," House puffed with a cheering voice, throwing the pen across his desk.

He then looked around, disappointed nobody but the skull on his desk was there to share his triumph. However, since he usually lived his victories on his own it didn't really bother him, so he just shrugged and opened the drawer looking for the bourbon bottle. House unscrewed the cap and while pouring some liquor in his red mug he glanced quickly at the conference room, glad to find it empty as it was supposed to be, the team busy performing exams on their patient.

Chronic fatigue, joint paint and insomnia on a 21 years old kid: not enough to keep them busy for the entire night, but sure enough to explain a prolonged stay at the hospital. Those symptoms could more likely lead to nothing, as much as open various doors on cool and rare diseases. The case was intriguing for the team, and even Masters seemed pretty much on a high. House was intrigued by the patient himself – some vice-boss of a street gang who however looked more like an altar boy– symptoms were cool and he had thrown himself into the new case in the blink of an eye.

He checked his watch again, thinking the right timing for him was about to come. The time for Rachel to go to bed and being sound asleep, and hopefully for Cuddy to having missed him enough during the day and be up for some extreme cuddling.

At that thought, a teasing grin formed on his lips. It still itched him when he had to spend the night away from his place but he was no fool, accommodation at Cuddy's manor had its perks: they could take all their time before, during and after, and he could enjoy Cuddy without even have her worry for Rachel or the baby sitter. According to a schedule he had become familiar with, in that moment, Cuddy was feeding Rachel with Wednesday's spaghetti: pasta worked fast on her tiny stomach fast, causing the kid to sleep like a lethargic bear. And allowing him to enjoy Cuddy through the night, giving her a surprise visit. He had told her he would have worked till late on the case, announcing he would have gone home straight from the hospital. He smiled to himself again, savoring the moment he would have snooped behind her, his hands showing her how much he had missed her, hopefully with no crying kid around.

Not that he disliked the kid, he had to admit for not being Cuddy's biological daughter she came damn close to look like a real one…but since he was a grown up man, with understandable very adults and healthy needs, no wonder he liked mommy better. Therefore, he took his time, planning the last details in his mind. With Rachel asleep, he would have offered Cuddy a glass of wine, to relax her muscles and nerves after the long day, preparing the ground for the main act.

Once he thought enough time have passed, House set his computer and stood up checking his pager and cell phone to make sure the team wasn't about to ruin his plans, then put on his coat and hooked his backpack with the cane swinging it on his shoulder. He walked past by the desk and was half on his way out when he stopped, remembering there was still a last drip of bourbon to kill in the mug. He went back to the desk and took care of it – never waste a good one - and when he turned around toward the door again he found out he wasn't alone anymore.

"This is no place for visitors," House said with a flat voice, studying the young Hispanic guy who had just stepped in, large as a two doors closet. "And I'm off the clock anyway."

His words did not provoke any reaction in his guest, House looked at him better and frowned at the guy's gloved hands. Troubles, House could read them all over the man pumped pectorals and biceps, almost ripping his grey and blue shirt like Lou Ferrigno at his green best. Still he didn't budge, he was not a man of action but a man of thinking and his mind raced looking for a strategy, quickly brushing off of the list go muscles on muscles. They guy could have ripped ribs out of his chest and use them to play Shanghai, for all House knew that was how he used to spend his nights out…when he wasn't busy killing with his bare hands people of the opposite gang. A second look reassured House at least there was no gun, but still he had to find a way to prevent that mountain of muscles from beating him to a pulp, something the guy seemed determined in doing.

Therefore when he stepped toward him with the look of a man who loved to mess with people's bones, House realized he had one and only strategy.

Surprise.

The young man was almost at one arm length from him when House grabbed his giant tennis ball and threw it at the guy. As every steroid pumped up junkie, quickness and reflex weren't his best abilities, and the ball hit him right on his nose. Not a strong shot of course but that wasn't the purpose, but it was strong enough to cause his eyes to flutter, the window of action House was waiting for. With his guards down, the guy didn't see House's cane swinging in the air and hit his plexus, cutting the air provisioning to his lungs. The man bent down gasping for air, as quickly as he could House held the cane with both hands like a baseball bat and hit the base of his neck. Satisfied by the howl of pain he got as answer, House then hammered his cane in the middle of the guy's stomach. Panting, House gathered his energies and while the man was still grasping for air he hooked his right ankle and pulled the strongest he could, sending his unwanted guest to roll on the floor, banging his head on the ground.

Adrenaline was running fast in his veins but didn't blurred his mind, and House kept a watchful eye on the choking man on the floor of his office while searching his pockets for his cell phone.

"Never trust a man with a cane," House muttered boldly, then stared at his phone browsing the list of contacts.

But before he could find hospital's security number, something hit his back and someone turned off the lights. A sudden and brutal force pushed him forward, taken by surprise he tripped on the guy still lying on the floor, nothing but his instinct helping him to stretch his arms and avoid a violent landing on his desk. Not that it really helped, before he could even turn around and see the second man he received a couple of punches on his lower back, losing his breath. Things didn't get any better when House managed to turn around. The first guy had recovered and blocked his arms while the second one – who looked similar with the same outfit and ethnic affiliation - granted his stomach with a series of punches.

Grasping for air House tried to gather the few oxygen left in his lungs, and push it to his brain. Taking advantage of a pause of his attackers, he kicked the man in front of him, then threw his head back seeing stars as his nape smashed on the guy's nose. His fierce resistance had two different and opposite consequences: on the short-term it gave House the chance to free himself from the grasp and catch up with some air, but on the long run did nothing but increase the two guy's vehemence. Before he could even see it coming, a fist as big as his oversized tennis ball impacted on his nose. House closed his eyes, seeing bright lights and colors, then felt a stranger hand rip the cane off of his hands and right after he had the not so nice revelation of how it felt like have it smashed on the back of his neck. He bent down grunting in pain, touching the hit part he felt sticky blood on his fingers, but the cane smashed on him again right before a foot armed with a military boot crashed on his ribcage and threw him on the floor. It didn't last long, two strong and not so gentle hands seized his shoulders and dragged him on his feet, throwing his already exhausted body across the room, over the desk and behind it. His head was pulsing painfully as his mouth tasted of blood because of a deep cut in his upper lip, the mixed and not so good sensation it gave him overpowered beyond limits when he was pushed forcefully against the x-ray screen on the wall. House heard the crash, but even more felt the broken glasses pouring like a sharp and cutting rain all over his head and face, a kind of pain that was quickly beaten once he was thrown down on the ground and kicked with an impressive precision right on his kidney.

In a lame attempt of reaction House grossed more blows, his mind unable to tell him where he was beaten and where he wasn't. Ribcage and stomach, face and head, arms and legs. Then suddenly everything stopped, leaving his whole body pulse and echo in the most excruciating pain he had ever felt, made even worse by the medical knowledge it would have been with him for a long time. His mind was somehow trying to list him his injuries, counting fractures and valuing recover times when the two attackers approached him again. House swallowed down a dense lump of saliva and blood, unable to even think of a counter move when they dragged him on his feet again. They pushed him with his back on what was left of the x-ray screen, then a couple of punches shuttered his jaw before one of the guy held his chin up. On a subconscious level House was impressed that intense activity hadn't tired the men at all, then he tossed the thought apart when he realized given the painful grip on his jaw that one was now more likely broken too.

When the man closest to him said something, his rumbling ears could barely register it. House found himself wonder how long he would have had to wait for unconsciousness to come and end the torture, one way or the other. In his mind, he was begging for a numbing liberation, although he realized it could have been a fatal one when the other man picked up his helmet. He saw it swing in the air, he had the time to think of the irony of being hurt with an object that was supposed to protect him, then he felt the impact. The strike came right in the middle of his chest, causing him to almost puke his heart out, but left him lucid enough not to miss the explosion of pain when the helmet met the deep wound on his right thigh.

Then he just screamed, and whatever came next he'd have never known.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thanks to everybody for the kind reviews, and for give this a try. I know the first chapter had some "visual" impact, and things will carry on like this in the second one (you've been warned, it will come back along the story): but everything will be explained ant taken care of. I do have a thing for suspense, it's about creating the right atmosphere and images to push on the emotional side of the story and hopefully you'll see where this is going.**_

_**Time to move forward, then.**_

_**As for mistakes, I am doing all I can to check and fix things but please, if you see something specific let me know so I can understand what I need to work on. I won't get offended, I will really appreciate it.**_

Light.

No, he couldn't see one. Thank God! Seeing the infamous light would have been too scary. He felt light, a tall and big man like him feeling as light as a feather. If it hadn't been that frightening, it could have almost been a nice sensation: feeling no constrictions, no barriers, none of the physical limits his age and leg confined him to. It wasn't new to him - that feeling - he had proved it before. The first run he had taken after the ketamine treatment, his leg finally pain-free again. He had felt like flying more than running, his body responding so perfectly, powerful, alive…

Nothing of that pleasant sensation was there, the only overwhelming feeling was the frustration of being tied down to the ground. He didn't dare to move, he was afraid to open his eyes and look around. What if there was nothing to look at? What if that light was staring at him, claiming his body like a siren calling Ulysses? No, better to keep his eyes shut, better keep live in the ignorance…if that was still about living anyway.

Because lightness wasn't the only thing he felt. Oh, he wished there was just that! Lightness on its own wasn't bad, it was a nice feeling, almost lulling, but not the cold pervading his body coming along with that. Cold plus lightness, that couldn't be good.

Could he move? He wasn't sure he wanted to try. There should have been a reason if he felt his entire body heavy and sore, a silent warning not to budge. Unless he wanted something bad to happen to him. Something painful.

Lightness and unconsciousness, cold, pain. All of that made him think there was really nothing to feel, but at least those "symptoms"were consistent with the vague memories haunting him. Flashing images of a nightmare, so scaring even bring it back to his mind caused him pain. Pain, he knew the one in his right leg, but what about the rest? What about his stomach, his shoulder, his arms? Why the aching pain all over his face and head, why the grief pounding in his chest instead of just his heart? Why the soreness on his back and legs, the numbness making him feel as if his extremities weren't part of his body anymore?

Yet, to some extents, it was good to feel pain. It meant there was something to feel, still better than feel nothing.

_C'mon, House don't fuss!_ He urged himself with a loud thought. _Man up and do it, open your eyes!_

Easy to say, not really to do. He was terrified by what he could have seen opening his eyes, and when he did try to lift his eyelids a woeful warning taught him better not to push it any further. If he couldn't even do that, open his eyes, without having his whole body quake in pain, how could he even think of making any kind of move?

_Breathe,_ he said to himself. _Take a deep breath. It can't be that bad…_

It was indeed, and he found out when he tried to breathe in. He couldn't inflate his lungs properly, as if his chest had just gotten two sizes smaller, trapping his organs with the disturbing addition of a sharp object sinking in the left one.

At least those painful signs were indications, and he could get something out of that. What did he feel? Pain, the most excruciating one he had ever felt, so much the one he in his leg for years paled in the confrontation. But it wasn't the only thing, and he tried to focus on the other sensation, also to kick out of his mind the images of men tossing and turning him around like a ball in a child's game.

Cold, not freezing. Was he out somewhere, in the cold? Or blood wasn't running in his veins properly? At least, that could explain why he was lying on something slimy and sticky, pasting him to- To what? Where was he again? His apartment? No, he didn't remember getting there. Smells, he could get hold of those, it was actually the only thing he could do that didn't bring pain to him. The air around him smelled like dust, but couldn't cover the aseptic aroma of a hospital. That characteristic mix of ammonia, disinfectant and all the most unpleasant smells having you wish to be anywhere but there. It must have been the hospital, yet it didn't look like he had been hospitalized. Why wasn't he? If he was in so much pain, he should have been laying down in a bed, wearing a fancy gown and fuelled with gallons of painkillers.

_Because they don't know. Nobody found me. Where am I? Why nobody rescued me? What happened to me? Why can't someone just come and make this all better, why can't they make all the pain go away? I'm here, _he struggled, he was sure he was actually speaking but didn't realize words were just in his head._ I'm here, can someone hear me? I'm here…where's everybody?_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Sorry! Forgot to space the different parts, hope like this is better._**

_ Hi everybody, and thank you all for the kind reviews. Fear not for House, things might not look good for him but this is just the start…can't get any worse than this, can it? Hope you'll like the way this chapter has been built: try to get familiar with it, as the title of the story says there will be a lot of "inside" and "out" House's head._

* * *

3.

"Can't you slow down?" Chase whined, catching up with Foreman. "It's not like we might be late…not later than House."

"I'm just walking," the neurologist stated grinning at his friend, who was walking slowly as if his legs were of solid wood. "You better stop doing that, or House will think you're making fun of him."

"He'll be too busy mocking all of us because we got nothing from the tests yesterday," he said, and Foreman agreed with a nod, then Chase sighed and arched his back. "God, you'll end up killing me man!"

"Hei, you asked me to help you work out."

"I said work out, not exhausting me," the doctor retorted as they reached the hospital entrance.

"You wouldn't be this tired if you hadn't spent the last months drinking and having sex every night," Foreman observed with a reproachful voice.

"Then what? House did it for half of his life, he ended up with the woman of his dreams and you never questioned his behave. Ok, ok," Chase muttered then, waving his hands when the neurologist glared at him. "Wrong example, I get it."

"I could give you the bossy lecture and say your lifestyle has been affecting your job," Foreman said picking up his messages, then they both left the acceptation desk. "But I'd rather go with the friend's advice, and honest concern for your recent priorities. That being said…you really need to get in a better shape, even Taub could outrun you."

"I get that, but why does it look like you're training me for the next New York marathon? Oh c'mon!" Chase protested when realized Foreman was heading to the stairs instead of the elevator. "Are you serious?"

"Four floors won't kill you," the neurologist reassured him, pushing the stairwell door open.

Chase muttered something against his friend, hoping that new dynamic could become familiar, or less annoying for him, then huffed resigned and followed his friend up the stairs.

"What do you think about the patient?" He asked absently, but by the way Foreman looked down at him it was clear his casual approach hadn't worked as planned.

"Years around House and you still haven't learned how to be subtle?" The neurologist questioned him mockingly, then shook his head and chuckled. "Can't you just ask me straight, if I think House took this case just because the kid is on a street gang?"

"He's not just in, he's the younger brother of the boss," Chase pointed out, then added. "So, do you think House will harass you about this?"

"With those symptoms and all negative tests? Nah, he has enough bones to chew for now, my past is nothing new. Not to mention," the neurologist added with a grin as they stepped on the fourth floor, "once House will find out Masters pities the young innocent forced into criminality by an unfortunate series of circumstance, we'll never heard the end of it."

Both men chuckled at the thought, they've had a hard time themselves not bursting into laugh when their new naïve colleague had exposed them her theory. They actually couldn't wait for House to find out, they already knew that confrontation would have provided them a nice show. Still half laughing, the two doctors walked down the hallway savoring the last moments of fun before focus back on work, then reached the conference room and switched their coat with the lab ones.

"I'm surprised she's still around," Chase stared pouring himself a cup of coffee. "That girl has some strength."

"He's just infatuated of the novelty," Foreman shrugged, absently reading the folder. "Either she'll get used to his way of working or she won't…and he'll make her life miserable untill she quits."

"I think one the reason she still hadn't, is that most of the time she doesn't get his jokes."

"I have to admit it's funny, the way he treats her I mean," the neurologist chuckled. "Did you see her face yesterday?"

"When she was shocked he didn't care for the patient's criminal record?" Chase asked with a laugh. "God, that was priceless!"

"Weird part is, one way or the other he might end up doing her a favor."

"Yeah, House the philanthropist," Foreman stated mockingly, then tossed the folder on the table and stood up to get himself some coffee.

"Well, in his way.." Chase mumbled sipping his coffee, then Foreman saw him froze and frowned.

"What? You're out of words to express how- Chase, what-"

Mocking in his voice switched to alarm when Chase walked toward, and then past by him. Foreman followed him, infected by his urge, but their mutual rush died as they stepped on the door of House's office. The room was upside down, messed up as if a herd of bison had wandered around like in a prairie. Then Foreman looked at his left, and his mouth went dry as he saw a familiar pair of sneakers poke from behind the desk, lying on the ground among glass splinters and random objects spread all over the carpet. He didn't see any blood, not yet, Chase pushed him apart and they both covered the distance, shivering at the sight of House lying on the ground. Half of his face was dark purple and covered with dry blood, Foreman swallowed down seeing how his jaw was swollen and Chase judged he should have had at least one broken arm according to the unnatural way it was bent.

Then they finally came to their senses, and figured out their shock wasn't an excuse not to do what they've been trained for.

* * *

"I'm surprised she's still around."

_What's that? Chase…yeah that annoying snobbish accent… So this is my office, they're back from the lab, the patient-_

"That girl has some strength."

_Girl? Who? Cuddy? Oh she does…but girl, she not girl, she's…should be Little Wonder…but why are they talking about her?_

"He's just infatuated of the novelty."

_Foreman! Good old bastard…stop showing off you know me like an open book and get here. I bet you have to tell me tests were inconclusive._

"Either she'll get used to his way of working or she won't…and he'll make her life miserable till she quit."

_Who cares about Masters? The boss, come look for the boss you presumptuous shady-_

"I think the reason why she still hadn't, is that most of the time she doesn't get his jokes."

_Of course it is, she knows nothing about sarcasm._

"I have to admit it's funny, the way he treats her I mean," _Ha, you bastard, you didn't like it when it was you!_ "Did you see her face yesterday?"

_Yesterday? What do you mean yesterday? How long have I been here?_

"When she was shocked he didn't care about the patient's criminal record?" _That was yesterday, afternoon…what's going on here? Come look for me you idiots, it's the day after, why didn't they come back yesterday evening- _"God, it was priceless!"

"Weird part is…one way or the other he might end up doing her a favor."

_Damn straight I will! What doesn't kill you-_

"Yeah, House the philanthropist."

_Yeah laugh your ass out of it, you "I don't want to turn into you"… Jesus can't you see there's something wrong? How can you think I don't want to know about the tests?_

"Well, in his way…"

_Like I need you to tell me I look after my team._

"What? You're out of words to express how- Chase, what-"

_Oh thank God! Finally they noticed it! C'mon, get me…get me out of here, come and get me! They're coming, they should find me…c'mon guys say something, tell me what's wrong with me, tell me why I'm such in pain, tell me why I can't move, say something, please say something, you're doctors for God's sake, you're doctors…_

* * *

If Wilson's firm "he's gonna be ok" had somewhat managed to reassure her, or at least keep her preoccupation on reasonable levels, the fact it had taken Marina a lifetime to come to her place had quickly contributed to build a fortress of panic around her. Not sure who that fortress was meant to protect, Cuddy had given the baby sitter a quick and scarce update, the only one she had been able to offer her with, then she had driven to the hospital trying to stop blaming herself.

She couldn't have known. There was no way to see it coming, House would have told her the same. The only thing she could feel guilty about was haven't called him the night before but still, why should have she? They hadn't planned to see each other, and they weren't the phone chit-chatting couple. Not to mention, she knew better not to bug him when he had a new case to sink his teeth. But all her reasoning became unimportant once she arrived at PPTH, everywhere she walked by Cuddy met people looking not at the dean of medicine, but at a patient's visitor. Things didn't get any better once she reached the ICU department, immediately spotting Wilson nervously pacing the hallway. After browsing the possible options, Cuddy soon decided that couldn't be good: if nobody but Wilson was there, it probably meant things were not as good as her friend had told her. But at least bad enough to have House not wanting anybody else around.

"He's sedated."

Of course, that was an option too.

"Why?" Cuddy asked, puzzled that was the first word coming out of her mouth.

"He's…in too much pain," Wilson confessed resting one hand on Cuddy's shoulder, then guided her to sit down.

"How's the situation?" She questioned him with a steady voice, glaring at Wilson when she saw his hesitation.

"Foreman and Chase found him unconscious in his office. He has four broken ribs, they had to intubate him because one perforated one of his lungs. There's a displaced fracture on his left leg and the ankle is broken too, so is his right arm and the wrist is slightly twisted. Left shoulder was out of place and he has three broken fingers on his left hand, he's got a black eye and an almost broken jaw, hematoma and bruises all over- I'm sorry Cuddy," the oncologist urged to add when he saw her lips tremble. "I thought you wanted me to tell the truth."

"What about the pain?" Cuddy asked washing away his concern, her voice betraying no emotions apparently. "Did you really need to sedate him?"

"He woke up," Wilson explained in a low voice, then shook his head and started again. "When they moved him on the stretcher, he came back to his senses…I could hear the scream from my office. I trust Foreman judgment, and if he said House needs to be sedated I guess he has his reasons."

"What else did they say? Foreman and Chase…you said they found him."

"This morning, when they came in a couple of hours ago. He was in his office, that's probably where he was assaulted but we can't tell when exactly. Cuddy," he said squeezing her hand and giving her his best sincere smile. "He's in bad conditions, I'm not gonna lie, but he'll be fine."

"Of course he will," Cuddy answered him with a disarming conviction that left Wilson speechless, then she stood up and looked over at House's room studying the blurred silhouette behind the closed blind. "He always finds a way to come out of everything."

"He's unconscious now," Wilson said in a low voice standing next to her. "But I'm sure he'd like some company."

"Maybe, but you know what else would he like?" She asked with and absent smile, then she stepped back and headed to the elevator. "Nail till death the lame boss who can't even assure employee's safety."


	4. Chapter 4

_I hope it gets easier to follow this story now that you know House is going to be all right, even though it might take a while. Now it's time to move in another direction: after all, we need to know what happened, don't we?_

4.

No matter how engaged she was in the conversation over the phone, Cuddy didn't fail to spot the man talking with Wilson outside her office. She couldn't know for sure, but the man looked like he had been dropped off the "NYPD Blue" cast caravan, and the dean could easily guess he was a police detective.

_About time!_ Cuddy grumbled to herself, then she waved one hand to Wilson to come in with the detective.

Cuddy dismissed the person on the phone with the gentlest voice she could – which, given the circumstances, required a big effort - then she took a deep breath, before Wilson opened the door. She gave her friend a quick questioning look the, reassured about the cop by his nod, she stretched her hand out at him.

"Lisa Cuddy. I'm the dean of medicine," she introduced herself. "Nice to meet you."

"Detective Sawyer," he said back, returning the gesture.

Cuddy held his hand for a while, valuing his solid but gentle grip and she took her time to study the man. He had short dark blond hair and his bushy mustaches didn't really soften his face, the one of a man who have had enough of what life had been throwing at him but was still fighting against it. Cuddy noticed a bulldog shaped pin on the lapels of his coat, and hoped he carried it for a good reason, such as not giving up until he'd gotten his man, then she pulled back her hand and showed him a chair.

"What can you tell me so far?" Sawyer asked straightaway.

"Not much unfortunately," Cuddy had to admit. "I just spoke with the chief of security, he's calling the agents from night shift back here. As soon as they'll be here, you can talk to them. What we know so far is that Dr. House had been attacked in his office, but we have no clues about the timing or anything else."

"I've seen cameras," Sawyer stated while taking notes on his pocketbook. "Any security video?"

"I've already instructed Mr. White to show you everything that had been taped in the last 12 hours. He's at your complete disposal, "she reassured him quickly, but Wilson noticed how her quickly evaporated. "We might not be lucky with those tapes though, this is a hospital and as a matter of privacy we can't have cameras in doctor's private offices."

Sitting next to Sawyer, the oncologist soon lost interest in the detective's frenetic scribbling - wondering if police training included stenography - and addressed his attention to Cuddy. She kept answering Sawyer's questions about security inside and outside the hospital, Cuddy never skipped a beat giving the detective all the information he needed. Although he admired and understood her fierce and solid way to deal with that, Wilson was utterly impressed by Cuddy's behave. Her shocked reaction hadn't last long after her arrival, to a point he wasn't sure she had really been upset. More likely - he thought - once she had accepted House would have been ok, she had decided to focus on find out who had reduced him to a bundle of bruises and broken bones.

"About Dr. House, what's his assignment here?"

"He's the head of department for diagnostic. He takes care of difficult patients," Cuddy explained, the small hint of pride in her voice not missed by Wilson.

"How many people work under him?"

"Four, currently."

"Why currently?" Sawyer questioned her, Wilson didn't like how that sounded and shifted on his seat uncomfortable. "Did something change recently?"

"Dr. House's department had been running for years now, there have been some alternations on his team but nothing out of the ordinary," Cuddy said, then shrugged at Wilson's puzzled look and glanced back at the cop ."Why don't you just ask it straight?" She questioned then, a little harshly. "If there's someone in this hospital who could have done this, any enemies? It's easier than lurk around it, isn't it?"

"Enemies," the detective huffed, staring at Cuddy from upside down as he closed his pocketbook. "It's kind of a hard word for a doctor. But on the other hand, judging by what you told me about the assault, we do have to explore all possibilities."

All of a sudden, Wilson felt trapped in a western movie. Cuddy and Sawyer were staring intensively at each other, and although no words were uttered between them the oncologist could clearly feel the tension. He looked over at Cuddy, who never broke eye contact with the cop, and found her stubbornly determined. Wilson hated to admit it, maybe "enemy" was indeed a strong word but with all the love in the world it was hard to deny House wasn't the most popular guy.

"I don't think Dr. House has no more enemies than you and me detective Sawyer," Cuddy said with a quiet voice, which sounded almost unnerving to Wilson's ears. "On the other hand, I assume you know he was shoot in his office some years ago by a man who had never been caught, which is something I've sadly heard being too much common-"

"I guess," the oncologist stepped in, earning a furious glare by Cuddy, "Dr. Cuddy means whoever attacked House it's obviously someone holding grudges on him. But it doesn't mean-"

"What I'm saying," Cuddy clarified taking back the bundle of the conversation, "is that whoever came in looking for Dr. House, doesn't necessarily work in this hospital."

"Which has its ups and down," Sawyer said unleashing his pocketbook again, and Wilson tried to spy on his notes worried he might spot some bad and doubtful ones about Cuddy. "If it's someone from the hospital, it would have narrowed suspects down at least, making things easier."

A bait, Sawyer's statement was nothing but that. He wasn't convinced by Cuddy's point and he was letting her know. If Wilson had been able to catch his boss's weak argument, sure thing the cop had too. The oncologist looked at Cuddy again, both impressed and scared by her unshakable friendly smile.

"I'm sure it would be, detective." she said then with such an honest regretful voice Wilson almost bought it. "I'm afraid things rarely favor us right away."

Wilson really didn't know what to think. Cuddy's behavior with the detective was driving him nuts, and when she started another staring contest with Sawyer the only reason why he didn't jump on his seat screaming was the phone ringing on her desk. Cuddy excused herself in the most natural way ever, then picked up the phone and after a brief conversation put it back and stood up.

"Night shift guards are here, you can talk with them if you want," she said, and the cop stood immediately, apparently eager to start the questioning part. "And I told Mr. White to come too, he'll show you the tapes."

How she made it, not to make it a rude dismissal, Wilson couldn't tell. Sawyer seemed impatient to start the dirty part of the job, and he followed Cuddy outside her office. The oncologist stood where he was, watching as Cuddy introduced Sawyer to the guards and left him with them. Then, as she walked back to her office, Wilson leaned back on the desk folding his arms and setting his eyebrows on sulky mood.

"Save that look for when I really deserve one," Cuddy said straightaway, closing the door behind her.

"You just lied to the police. Again, by the way," he whined outraged at her.

"Well that's a low one," she sighed absently walking toward him. "And I didn't lie."

"Cuddy, I know you're personally involved in this, but you should deal with this in a rational way."

"A doctor had been used as punching ball in my hospital, Wilson," Cuddy clarified sitting down in front of him. "I'm helping the police, keeping them away from a wrong path that'll have them waste time. I can hardly think of something more rational than this."

"You didn't tell him the truth."

"Thought you were here too, when I told him about the shooter…"

"We both know House isn't really the kind of man everybody likes Cuddy," Wilson said in a low voice, he didn't know if his words hurt her but sure they were a pain for him. "He's more…the cranky son of a bitch everybody loves to hate. And people working in this hospital make no exception."

"You don't need to tell me Wilson. I've been archiving complaints about him for years."

"Then I guess you ruled out that possibility a little bit too quickly," the oncologist insisted standing in front of her, he saw no hesitation in Cuddy's eyes but went on. "Over the years he had pissed off almost everybody here, stomping feet and making wrongs to anybody crossing his way. He cheated," Wilson went on raising his voice when Cuddy stood up and walked behind her desk, "he lied and blackmailed to get things for his patients… Is it really that hard to believe, that someone might have had enough of his crap once for all?"

"I can't accept it," Cuddy said with a low but steady voice, turning around to face him. "If it's true…yes, he's been a pain in the ass to almost everybody here, and yet nobody ever went beyond official reclaim. I can't accept the same doctors I hired and respect, the ones I work with every day, can go from polite dissent to take care of things on their own. Not this way."

"I get it Cuddy but…we should keep that door open."

"And what? Put a security guard in front of his room? And what if the guard is the one who beat him, because he mocked his haircut last week? Control every nurse who goes inside to change his bandages, because maybe he annoyed her once?" Cuddy questioned him. "Or prevent any doctor to give him surgery if he needs one because he might have tricked him in the past? Can't I trust my radiologist, because he keeps saying even a trained monkey could do their job? Maybe I shouldn't even let his team take care of him, since he had been harassing them for years."

"Cuddy-"

"This is not how this hospital is Wilson. Not my hospital," she was getting fiercer and fiercer, anger mixed with pride, and Wilson had to swallow down crashed by her confidence. "He's an asshole, I think I know better than anybody else. But no one I know would have ever done this to him. I refuse," Cuddy almost hissed, right in his face. "I refuse to believe someone here could do something like this, to anybody. And it's not reasonable. He's been attacked at night, in his office. Don't you think if it had been someone from the hospital they would have chosen a different place? Somewhere unrelated to here, not easy to track down, no links-"

"Oh God!" Wilson blurted out after a while, waving his hands up in the air in a frustrated gesture. "You know what, House is digging into your head. That's…that's exactly his way of reasoning."

"Because it makes sense. If someone from the hospital would want to hurt him, I doubt they'd want to get caught. If it sounds like House's way of thinking, then you'll have no problem trusting it," Cuddy cut it short with a quick smile, then turned around and grabbed her cell phone. "I'm gonna talk with Foreman about their patient."

"You want," Wilson asked, frowning furiously, "you want them to keep working on it? Just like that, going back to the conference room?"

"You're right…his office and the conference room are probably off limits," she muttered absently, then rested one hand on his shoulder. "I'll find them another place where to work."

And with that, with a quick and sudden dash that reminded him House's ones in a scaring way, she was gone. Leaving him alone, wondering why and how their relationship seemed to have shaded her more into House's attitude than the other way around as he had wished.

.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello! Thanks for putting up with this weird story and its slow start: I am trying to bring all the different elements that are going to be part of the plot, and show them to you little by little. Do not worry about House: no matter his conditions, he's going to be very much part of the game!_

* * *

5.

She hadn't signed for that.

She had been told work for House could be challenging, on so many levels, and she had touched what a weird and wild world it could be with her own hands. But right when she thought it couldn't get any worse… In her world, doctors didn't get- No, in her universe people didn't get attacked and beaten. Which meant, the idea a doctor could be assaulted and reduced to a bag of bones and wounds, in his office, inside a hospital, was nothing but out of her mind.

Once arrived at the hospital, Masters hadn't even noticed the tumult, not more than usual at least. After all, since from when she had worked there, they've been through a quarantine, false lab tests and multiple firings: how much stranger could things get? Still, while her brain was barely acknowledging Foreman and Chase telling detective Sawyer what they've seen, her attention was drawn to her boss's office. They hadn't been able to use the room yet, which still looked like someone had thrown a bomb inside the room. What the attackers hadn't messed up, was now about to be torn apart by police and forensic.

"Dr. Masters?" Sawyer called her, finally bringing her in the conversation too.

"Yeah, yes sir," she urged to answer, feeling tensed and sweating all of sudden.

"How long have you been working for Dr. House?"

"Ha, um…not long. A couple of months, more or less."

Sawyer took his note and kept asking her harmless questions, although she got a bit distracted when the elevator opened and a police squad came out of it. The detective looked over at his coworkers and waved his hand at them, giving them direction for House's office. As he went on trying to define with Masters how could she work as a doctor without being a real one yet, the young woman answered absently as she observed the men prepare gloves and kit before step inside the office.

"Any idea about what happened here last night?" The cop asked, impressed by the perfect unison of their negation nods. "No clues about someone who would harm Dr. House to this point?"

"He's a doctor. His only fights involve virus and germs," Chase muttered, with a half grin that caused Masters to frown.

"Yeah but," Sawyer said, browsing his pocketbook. "Weren't you the one who gave him a black eye, last year?"

"Oh, well," the Australian doctor fumbled with his words, almost blushing and looking at his coworkers for support. "That's, I…it's true, but he was…I was going through a rough moment, my wife just left me… And I was out with Foreman last night."

"Don't worry Dr. Chase, I'm not implying anything. I'm just trying to set the bars," he said reassuringly, but his words clearly intrigued Foreman, who frowned. "Dr. Cuddy seems pretty sure no one from the hospital staff could have done this, but I still need to know where the truth stands," to their major relief he closed his pocketbook, but then looked over at Chase folding his arms. "He fired you once, right?"

"And I lost track of the times he fired me," Taub blurted helping out Chase, almost amused by the cop statement. "It's like a sport to him, half of the times he doesn't even mean it. It's just…to prove a point."

"Prove a point?"

"I guess," Masters stepped in, she might had been shy and unsure but if it came down to be fired by House as popping candies, she did have something to say about it. "It's his way to get the best out of people. He thinks they work better under pressure."

"And you don't think this attitude might have been too much for someone?"

Detective Sawyer knew the feeling, the one of having nailed the right - or wrong - spot. He could always see it in people's faces, he was trained to do that. However, in that occasion, as he studied carefully House's fellows exchange a maze of gazes, he had a hard time catching cracks.

"No," Foreman finally said, voicing everybody's thoughts. "House is frustrating, but not unnerving to this point," he stated confident, pointing at the men looking for evidence in his boss's office. "Yes, he gets on people's nerves…but they usually give up on being mad at him when they realized he has a point."

"He's not annoying because he's mean," Chase added supporting the neurologist. "He is, because he's always right."

"It's his way to care. He forces people to deal with their issues, instead of deny them," was Taub contribution. "I mean, he has a crappy way to do that, but…no, I can't see anybody here doing something like this. For every wrong he makes someone here, there are least two good things too."

Life never ceased to amaze her.

She was standing there, witnessing the same men she used to see rolling their eyes at House and mutter at him every day, now singing his praise and defending his behave. And she could barely believe it. Yet, truth was she agreed with them. House was an obnoxious pain in the ass, annoying and questioning her beliefs and view of life, yet she could tell she had learned something from him, and about herself. In both cases, most of the time they were things she didn't like, but she couldn't deny they were there and they were truth, whether she liked them or not.

Just partially following the conversation, Masters looked back at House's office. In that room there were more toys than in a kid's room, but the presence of policemen touching his personal stuff made everything serious. She watched them collect samples, pick up bloody broken glasses of the x-ray screen, scratching surfaces with tampons, spreading fingerprints powder all over the place. One of them knelt and picked up the oversized tennis ball with his gloved hand, and stacked it in an evidence plastic bag, then started to do the same with every object he found before throw them in a box.

"Do they," Masters asked then looking over at Sawyer, after she saw one of the agents searching not so gently through House's medical books. "Do they really have to do that? Those are his personal stuff, it's his-"

"Dr. House was working late last night," Sawyer stated then, after a puzzled look addressed to Masters and a dismissive shrug of the other doctors. "Was it unusual for him?"

"No, actually not," Taub answered speaking for everybody. "When we have a difficult case, he likes to keep a closer eye on it."

"Any chance someone could have known in advance he was working late?"

"House hasn't a real schedule, about anything. He just follows the heat of the moment," Foreman explained then shook his head. "It wasn't planned, we didn't even know he was still here."

"So you think whoever did this, was just lucky to find him still in his office?"

"As stupid as it might sound," Chase sighed with a shrug and enlarged his arms. "Maybe they weren't sure. They checked his parking spot and saw his bike was there, they did the math."

Chase words were quite reasonable, and Sawyer could accept the logic. Sometimes things were really just as they seemed, and after all other than Dr. Wilson's shy attempt to explore the internal possibilities, what his questioning had given him so far was nothing but a true and diffuse concern for the victim, no matter what an asshole to his coworkers House could be. Ok, he sure wasn't the one to bet on for best man of the year award, but either they were all good actors and there was a major conspiracy against House, or as Cuddy had told him no matter his abrasive personality he wasn't a jerk big enough to justify what had been done to him.

Which, in his humble but also expert opinion, left one and only option.

"What about your current patient?" He asked then, addressed to Foreman who look like the one somewhat in charge. "What was he working on?"


	6. Chapter 6

_Let's move forward. The basic elements of the story are almost all on the plate now, the details will (should) start to make sense soon. Thank you all again for reading and commenting, hopefully you'll find the development of the story interesting enough._

_This chapter will take us back inside House's head. I loved to write these chapters: they might be a little tough to read, but they are part of the story and they will take you places._

* * *

6.

Voices.

Not that he could hear them for real, it seemed more like a background noise, like an interference. Maybe he was dreaming, or just imagining them. Was he really that fucked up? However, if he was lucid enough to know those voices weren't real, maybe things weren't that bad after all. Maybe his brain was still working properly. Talking about priorities…he was in pain, unconscious, on drugs, he wasn't totally sure of the gravity of his injuries and above all he had no clues about recovery time. Yet, his main concern was having his brain still work properly.

But he couldn't help it, his intellect was his most precious treasure and the fact he might lose it… He did know how it felt like, he had already been there and he didn't want to go back to that dark place. Wait, if he was able to focus on what he had been through with his hallucination and point out the difference, maybe he wasn't that messed up after all.

On the other hand, why could he feel nothing but those undistinguished sounds?

Nothing else, he couldn't open his eyes…damn, he couldn't even feel his eyes! He couldn't get any feedback from his extremities, let alone his right leg. Why? How could that total lack of response being possible? No chance it could mean something less than horrible. Was he dead? Nah, he did not believe in after life so that one was ruled out, so what? Almost dead? Maybe, but that didn't look like any of the extracorporeal experiences he had been through, and he had been through more than how many he could or would want to remember.

Was he…if he could have felt his mouth he would have probably smirked at the floating image of his head, nothing but that and the rest of his body gone, forming ever so quickly as it vanished in his crumbled mind. Was that the reason? There was nothing but his brain left of him? That was why he couldn't get hold of the rest of his body? No, even blurred and detached from his physical components, his mind protested against that silly thought. No way the cells of his brain could register nothing, if his neuron connections didn't have anywhere to go…

_Geez, you're unbelievable!_ A mocking voice warned him from a deep and hidden spot of his brain, a strange and evil laugh echoing somewhere. _You could be dead, and all you can think of is this?_

Well yes, as crazy as it might sound. And if thinking was the only thing he could do, better try to get the best out of it. So he tried to set his lacerate and leaking memory on…on what? What have happened? Had something happened? Something good…well, since he couldn't remember any of it, either it was about a massive fuddle or it was something bad. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember getting drunk or even why he should have had, therefore he had to opt for something bad, really bad.

Then all of sudden something triggered in his mind. Not a real memory or an image, not a sound because even the ones he had been hearing were gone.

What slowly started to dig in his mind, lighting up lights like bulbs aligned next to each other was a familiar and a long-dormant sensation.

Pain.


	7. Chapter 7

_Let's move forward. The basic elements of the story are almost all on the plate now, the details will (should) start to make sense soon. Thank you all again for reading and commenting, hopefully you'll find the development of the story interesting enough._

_This chapter will take us back inside House's head. I loved to write these chapters: they might be a little tough to read, but they are part of the story and they will take you places._

* * *

6.

Voices.

Not that he could hear them for real, it seemed more like a background noise, like an interference. Maybe he was dreaming, or just imagining them. Was he really that fucked up? However, if he was lucid enough to know those voices weren't real, maybe things weren't that bad after all. Maybe his brain was still working properly. Talking about priorities…he was in pain, unconscious, on drugs, he wasn't totally sure of the gravity of his injuries and above all he had no clues about recovery time. Yet, his main concern was having his brain still work properly.

But he couldn't help it, his intellect was his most precious treasure and the fact he might lose it… He did know how it felt like, he had already been there and he didn't want to go back to that dark place. Wait, if he was able to focus on what he had been through with his hallucination and point out the difference, maybe he wasn't that messed up after all.

On the other hand, why could he feel nothing but those undistinguished sounds?

Nothing else, he couldn't open his eyes…damn, he couldn't even feel his eyes! He couldn't get any feedback from his extremities, let alone his right leg. Why? How could that total lack of response being possible? No chance it could mean something less than horrible. Was he dead? Nah, he did not believe in after life so that one was ruled out, so what? Almost dead? Maybe, but that didn't look like any of the extracorporeal experiences he had been through, and he had been through more than how many he could or would want to remember.

Was he…if he could have felt his mouth he would have probably smirked at the floating image of his head, nothing but that and the rest of his body gone, forming ever so quickly as it vanished in his crumbled mind. Was that the reason? There was nothing but his brain left of him? That was why he couldn't get hold of the rest of his body? No, even blurred and detached from his physical components, his mind protested against that silly thought. No way the cells of his brain could register nothing, if his neuron connections didn't have anywhere to go…

_Geez, you're unbelievable!_ A mocking voice warned him from a deep and hidden spot of his brain, a strange and evil laugh echoing somewhere. _You could be dead, and all you can think of is this?_

Well yes, as crazy as it might sound. And if thinking was the only thing he could do, better try to get the best out of it. So he tried to set his lacerate and leaking memory on…on what? What have happened? Had something happened? Something good…well, since he couldn't remember any of it, either it was about a massive fuddle or it was something bad. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember getting drunk or even why he should have had, therefore he had to opt for something bad, really bad.

Then all of sudden something triggered in his mind. Not a real memory or an image, not a sound because even the ones he had been hearing were gone.

What slowly started to dig in his mind, lighting up lights like bulbs aligned next to each other was a familiar and a long-dormant sensation.

Pain.


	8. Chapter 8

_This is going to be…difficult, maybe hard to read. There is a lot of pain and raw emotions going on here, and I think you might find the writing a little bit unconventional. That being said, reading your comments looks like House's suffering and pain – and the way it's put on the paper – is the thing keeping you hooked, so…_

_Everything will be explained and tied up in the end: if it would be done properly, you will tell me in the end._

* * *

8.

That was not him.

He'd been a cripple for almost half of his life, experimenting various shapes, levels and kind of pain. He had experienced the unpleasant sensation of not being in control of his own body, the scary feeling of having no hold on his mind and being unable to trust his own judgment...but he had never been through anything like that.

Nothing like that odd feeling of being a fish inside an aquarium. A dumb fish, inside a sound and bulletproof aquarium, tied down to the sand ground. He could see, but although his ears were free, sounds came muffled to him. Did Wilson mention something about that? Well, he hadn't mentioned anything specific to be honest. Maybe there was something wrong indeed. Either that, or he really had no explanations as of why he couldn't give a proper meaning to the scene going on before his eyes.

Everything was blurred, his sight partly blocked by the tube itching inside his throat, and he couldn't even get rid of that disturbing shadow he felt wrapping his pupils. Ok, maybe he could have actually moved his arms, the heavier weight of his right one told him that one was broken and more likely in a cast, but given the confused signals his body sent he didn't dare to take the chance. The blurred view didn't help him focus on the people working around him, standing all around his bed talking to each other, pointing down at him as if he were a carcass, debating on him like a bunch of wild and hungry animals. Acting as if he wasn't even there.

But he was, wasn't he? Wilson had talked to him, he had seen a nurse wander around him and he has had to close his eyes to avoid her pitying look. If he could have, he would have probably grinned. Even with his body messed up by pain and mind fucked up by morphine, he could tell Wilson wasn't happy with his decision of testifying, not at all. He could see the oncologist waving his arms and shaking his head, while the unknown man with the long coat kept his coolness. Finally, Wilson seemed to become aware of his presence, he looked down at him and shook his head again, before maneuvering with the drug dispenser. It was like turning on a switch; House followed Wilson's movements with his eyes and saw him bustle with the morphine dosage. It didn't take long for the fog to vanish, numbness left his body and when the oncologist leaned down on him to speak he could even kind of hear him. It took him a while to get his hearing back completely, but in the meantime he was sure Wilson told him something about Cuddy being stuck iin a meeting about safety. When House realized his friend was suggesting him to wait for her to be there, and try to get some sense in him, he did his best to shake his head no. Being questioned by the police in his condition might have been a bad one, but he wanted it to be his call. Being awake, even in that half state of perception, was painful. He knew morphine couldn't be the eternal solution and he wanted it to be the shortest it could. He wanted it to be, first of all: if there was something useful in his mind he needed to find it and spill it out.

The unknown man approached the bed appearing in his sight, House couldn't get hold of his name, but still got the message he was a cop. He tried to give him a feedback, but by the way he looked over at Wilson it was clear his message hadn't been received. Then Wilson told him, with a nauseating worried voice, he should have blink to answer, one for yes and two for no. In that moment a wave of pain ran through his body, the shot of distressing adrenaline causing him to wonder how many times he should have blinked to say fuck you. Then urged to give Wilson a single and clear blink, when he asked him if he needed him to give his painkillers a little push. House closed his eyes as the lulling wave of drug washed calmly inside him, he wished he hadn't a tube down his throat just to get a deep breath on his own, but couldn't. Which would have been frustrating enough, even without the disturbing realization he couldn't fully understand the cop's words.

He was almost sure he was asking him if his name was Gregory House, he blinked once and he did it again when the man asked him if he was a doctor and worked at PPTH. Those were easy questions, as easy as something asked of a man in his conditions could be. House knew they were about his level of response and lucidity, still he tried his best to focus and answer properly.

Did he know of someone who would have wanted to harm him? Oh, a long list! But not until that point. Two blinks.

No ideas? Two blinks.

Stay late at the hospital had been his idea? One blink.

Did he do it because of his current patient? One blink- no, wait, he didn't. He just wanted to waste some time before leaving, that would made two blinks. But then, did it matter to the police? It wasn't technically a lie, but it didn't make any real difference after all. The cop repeated his question again, therefore House knew he had to do better than that and opted for a harmless watered version of truth, and blinked once. As the questioning went, it became clear the reasons of his staying weren't the only confused information he gave. The cop offered him a wide gamut of timing, trying to determine when the assault had happened, but he couldn't give him an answer. He did remember checking his watch, but the time on it was swallowed by morphine's effects.

Since the same thing happened again, Wilson stepped in. House "felt" him argue with the detective and state he wasn't in the condition to answer any more, because of the drugs. But instead of stepping back, the cop kept defending his point, promising it wouldn't have taken him long.

Did he know his aggressors? Two blinks.

Had he reasons to believe what happened was related to his patient? One, confused, blink.

How many people? One? Two blinks- What was that? That pinching pain in his chest? How could he feel pain with all the drug swimming in his veins?

Two people? One blink…but God, did they look so much more than two! Then, what was up with his breath? Those short and quick huffs of air trapped in his lungs?

Did they look like members of a gang or something? One blink, one damn sure blink, and then that aching pain again. Not the chest but his heart, combined with those tired breathless moans suffocated in the plastic of the tube.

That couldn't be right, it couldn't be good. Chest pain, trouble breathing, his head spinning and the sudden sweat covering his face. Morphine, too much could affect his heart—

What did he mean which gang? How the fuck was he supposed to answer that by blinking, for God's sake? Out of breath, he had a machine doing that for him and he was out of breath, and that tube proved to be even more useless when House realized it was preventing him from tell Wilson he was about to have an heart attack.

Did he think they belonged to the same gang of his patient? Time, take your time, remember how they were dressed, it was a peculiar outfit right? He had indeed noticed it, but why was it all so blurred and confused? Wilson, he looked over at Wilson begging with his eyes. His eyelids were going crazy, trembling out of control and blinking like car wipers in the storm of the century. Why was nothing on the monitor? Oh, yes! One fucking blink, their "uniform" was exactly the one Cortez was wearing when he had been admitted, what the-

Did they say something? Who cared if they had!

God finally! He'd never thought he'd welcomed the alarm sound coming from the machines as a good thing, but he had to when they finally spiked up. Wilson pushed the cop aside with a quite remarkable force, but the man kept talking from behind the oncologist, repeating the same question about if and what they told him. When the heart attack finally took over and he started to drift away slowly, for a moment House thought it didn't really matter, that it couldn't have been that important after all. But then he realized he had to matter, it would have given that painful ordeal a meaning.

Pushed by his own pride and the fear of failure, House gathered his all energy. And had just the time to blink once, before Wilson ripped his hospital gown open and grabbed the paddles.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you all for the reviews, I appreciate the fact you seem to be getting into the story no matter the unusual pace. We are moving a forward now: those of you who thought Wilson would have been in trouble for taking this gamble on House, will see how thing works out for him here._

* * *

9

The elevators door opened on the ground floor, and Wilson moved one foot out of the cabin. But then he spotted Cuddy, engaged in a conversation with the nurse attending House, and urged to go back inside. The oncologist furiously pushed the buttons with his open palm, fighting the desire to drag inside the old man ambulating slowly toward him, before Cuddy could see him. He didn't want that. Right before the doors closed, he saw how animated the nurse seemed to be, waving her hands and gesticulating, and although the oncologist knew he could only postpone his punishment, he wasn't ready to face Cuddy's fury.

Not just yet, not before he have had time to process what had just happened. Not before he could really come to terms with the fact he had just dragged his best friend back from death by frying his chest hair. To be entirely honest, more than anything he should try to figure out, soon, if he hadn't been also the one leading him to almost lose his life. Oh, House would have died to…ok, bad choice of words. House would have loved to mick him for that, for his irresistible need to blame himself for something. It had been House's call to do it, he knew very well what consequences there could have been and yet he had wanted to do that anyway. Therefore, technically it wasn't his fault. He had done nothing but follow his friend's will.

And now he was a dead man.

That was exactly how he felt, a dead man walking, as he went to hide in his office. As he closed the door behind him, Wilson loosened the knot of his tie and rolled up his sleeves, his mind trying to build some kind of defense for when Cuddy would storm in claiming for his head. The oncologist valued his options. He could have tried to pass it all on House and his stubborn martyr syndrome, but he knew that wouldn't have worked. First of all, he simply couldn't push himself to be such a bastard, and more likely Cuddy would have turned the table on him in the blink of an eye, saying House clearly wasn't in the position to make any rational call.

However kind of expected, the knock on the door still caught him off of guard. The oncologist gasped realizing he had no escape, and for a moment naïvely thought if he had kept it quiet maybe she would have just gone away. As silent as he could be, Wilson approached the door trying to slide on the carpet, holding his breath when the knock repeated and huffing out when she spoke.

"Wilson don't be stupid," Cuddy's voice said, and something told him she was making fun of him. "You didn't even lock the door."

With a long sigh, the oncologist resigned and opened the door. Then he urged to close it again, if he had to be eaten alive he wanted to spare the show to everybody else, and as soon as he turned around he looked for something to say.

"I'm sorry Cuddy. I told him not to do that. I knew it was a bad idea, I shouldn't have taken him out of sedation, I," he started to pace the room, unable to look at her as his babbling went on. "Listen, I know this is not an excuse. I should have taken care of him, stopped him instead of enabling him like I always do-"

"And I didn't expect you to do anything less," Cuddy said, finally managing to interrupt him, grabbing his shoulder to stop his frantic movements too. "As his friend, and as his doctor."

"He could have died Cuddy," Wilson blurted out with a weak voice. "If you had been there and would have seen it you'd agree…I could have lost my patient, and my friend, and it would have been my fault."

"Wilson," she said again, desperately trying to calm him down. "Why don't we get a coffee, or something?"

"A coffee!" The oncologist babbled, frowning furiously. "You want…I almost killed your boyfriend and you want to buy me coffee?"

"Well maybe something less exciting would be better," Cuddy told him as she pushed him gently toward the door.

Not sure follow her was the wisest thing to do, Wilson still did it. Maybe the fact his head was still attached to his body, gave him enough confidence to give her some credit. So he followed her, they didn't say a word during the trip down to the cafeteria, and Wilson tried for the entire time to determine if Cuddy's silence was a good or bad sign. Not knowing what Cuddy had in store for him wasn't a good reason not to be polite, so he paid for their coffees and followed her to a table.

"He took a risk," Cuddy said then, looking around instead than at him. "That's what he always does, without thinking about the consequences, pushing to the limits."

"And he almost died," Wilson pointed out, still not sure what to make of Cuddy's behavior.

"I know Wilson, I know," she whispered in a low voice, absently lulling the cup of coffee in her hands. "But you were there for him. I wouldn't have wanted anybody else with him. Carol told me what you did, how you reacted quickly when he- Good think you were there, Wilson," she said again, a dark shadow on her face as she added bitterly. "I don't think…in your place I don't think I would have been able …to do anything-"

"You're a doctor, Cuddy. You would have reacted on instinct, just like I did," he said shaking his head, wondering when roles had switched and he had become the one comforting her over his own mistakes.

"I'm not sure about this, but thanks," Cuddy said, giving his hand a friendly squeeze. "And thanks for trying to get some sense in that brick wall of his head, even if you knew it would have been useless."

"You know," the oncologist huffed leaning back on the chair, suddenly relieved. "It's good to see him fight, no matter what."

"Was it at least useful?"

She looked down at her coffee to prevent him from catch her real expression and Wilson realized she hadn't even touched it.

"I'm not the one you should ask Cuddy," the oncologist admitted. "But I do know to put him through that again is a bad idea. He can't stand too much morphine, and if he's awake he needs it."

"We can't decide this for him Wilson, and you know it," Cuddy stated. It was a confident statement, but he could hear the pain in her voice. Then whatever moment of weakness she might have been showing, was tossed away when she straightened up on the chair and checked her watch. "I need to talk to detective Sawyer. He spoke with House's team and he wanted to question him, he's following a track. Maybe the interrogation wasn't a complete waste of time," she stood up and took the paper cup, but instead of picking it up she seemed to linger with her fingers on it. "And I have to be sure Foreman and the others are taking care of the patient. And I should call Marina, I left in a hurry this morning and I need to check on Rachel."

"All things you can do from here, with your phone," Wilson suggested in his special caring yet imposing voice, his hand gently touching hers as Cuddy looked down, a little bit unease for that genuine display of affection. "Cuddy you haven't stopped since you got here, you're worried for House and for your employee's safety. Now it's the police's turn to take it from here. If you take your time to have a coffee and eat something the world won't stop. So now," the oncologist stood up and held her shoulders, gently but firmly pushing her to sit down again. "Unless you want me to give you a lecture on your sick need to control everything, you sit down here and I'll get you something to eat. Ha!" He babbled raising his open palm at her when she opened her mouth, trying some kind of protest. Then he took her untouched coffee and gave her a warning nod. "And a grey tea, of course."

It was hard to fight that, James Wilson in full caring mood could be unstoppable and most of the time genuinely irresistible. Sitting alone in the cafeteria, at the same time aware and careless of how the hospital staff was looking at her - where her meant Dr House's girlfriend more than anything else - Cuddy sighed absently and took her cell phone to call home and check on Rachel with Marina. She had left home in a rush for obvious reasons. Marina wanted to be updated, and Cuddy knew reassuring the nanny would be a good way to keep Rachel's questioning at bay at the same time. Her daughter and House weren't bonding easily, but they did have a reciprocal weird curiosity. House tried to hide it most of the times, and Rachel for obvious reasons couldn't. Most of the time it was funny and unnerving for everybody, and mostly because House's way to deal with her child was to treat her like an adult. Being a grown up child himself, House refused the idea to treat kids like idiots. To him, they were just young human beings, and they should be treated like that. And God help her, being usually surrounded by adults talking gibberish to her, Rachel seemed to appreciate that tall goofy man who didn't try to get smiles or hugs out of her like candies from a vending machine.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Sawyer's voice dragged her out of her own thoughts. Feeling almost caught off guard, Cuddy blinked a couple of times and looked up at the cop, then quickly dismissed Marina on the phone. At the same time, on the other side of the room Wilson was debating between mushrooms or asparagus salad, then he looked over at Cuddy and spotted her talking with the detective. Something he saw on his friend's face didn't seem right to him, Cuddy was way too much focused on what the detective was saying and he didn't like the man's serious face. Forgetful of Cuddy's tastes, he grabbed one item randomly and urged to order tea, then tried to pay and get it all done the soonest he could. But it was too late already, once he made it back to the table Sawyer was already gone.

And judging by the serious and bossy voice she told him they had to talk, he had left a heavy baggage for them to share.


	10. Chapter 10

_Time to move away from House a bit. Well, hard to move away from him since everything is always about him! But let's not forget: he's not the only patient of this story._

* * *

10

"How can a 20 years old kid have chronic fatigue?" Chase blurted tossing the folder on the small table. "He's not into sports or any kind of intense physical activity, he doesn't go to the gym," he sighed and leaned back on the couch straddling his face with both hands. "There's no explanations in his daily life for this."

"Not the one we know of," Taub pointed out pouring himself a couple of coffee, then shrugged. "Now the question is, what's a gang leader's younger brother daily routine made of? That's all we need to know."

The plastic surgeon looked absently in Foreman's direction, the sarcastic tone of his voice causing the neurologist to shoot him a glare. It made sense, apparently since House wasn't there his coworkers felt obliged to carry on with the "let's mock the black guy for his dirty past" act no matter what. He was not in the mood, not even in different circumstances. He might have been the buzz kill everybody thought, but between a very sick patient - for whom they still had no clues - and their boss's aggression, Foreman really thought making fun of his youth mistakes should have been the last thing on their list.

"We could try to ask him. But we can't really expect him to be honest," Foreman said then, sitting on the billiard table. "If he's involved in the gang activities, it will be hard to get something out of him."

"What about searching his place?" Taub suggested then. "We haven't ruled out heavy metal poison yet."

"More likely we'd need a police convoy to search the place."

"Police stay away from that neighborhood, unless it's necessary," Foreman mumbled, answering Chase's remark.

"Then we're good," Taub muttered almost enthusiastically, then waved one hand to the door, his voice still charged with sarcasm. "Police are here already, and they're working on the same case," Foreman, Chase and Masters looked at him, both puzzled and intrigued thinking he might have had a point. "We can tell the cops searching Cortez's place could be useful for their investigation too. Maybe we can have a couple of agents-"

Maybe it was the police being involved, or the simple fact that was House's team, but the latest turn in the conversation seemed to put Dr. Rollins unease enough. He had gone to the doctor's lounge hoping to find a quiet place, watch some TV or maybe even take a nap, but instead he had found House's team holding the place hostage.

Not only ahd they sacked the coffee supply and occupied the couch. They'd also moved the whiteboard there, and judging by the way they made themselves comfortable they planned to stay there for a long time. Even if the conference room wasn't strictly involved in the investigation, they couldn't obviously use it as the usual base for their DDX. Work on a differential required high level of concentration, which was hard to keep with massive distraction such as a squad of cops invading their boss's office. Therefore, when Cuddy had suggested them to move to another place they'd jumped on the possibility. Of course once they'd settled in, Masters had felt suddenly uneasy occupying a public space. Not that they were forcing people out, everybody was welcome and surely nobody needed their permission, still whoever came in didn't last long.

The next and last victim was Dr. Rollins. At first the pediatrician had tried to ignore their conversation, but eventually decided he had had enough of it, so he grabbed his sandwich and his lab coat and left the room. His departure didn't seem to affect the team, as much as his presence hadn't bothered them at all, and they went on for some minutes valuing the option of disrupting police's involvement to get hold of some more information about the patient. Standing silent in the corner of the room, Masters kept watching her coworkers switching from discussing medicine to pondering criminal issues with a disarming facility.

"How can you do this?" She blurted out finally, calling the three men's eyes on her at the same time.

"Police already think the aggression has something to do with our patient," Taub babbled, not sure that might be the problem but still willing to give it a shot. "If they can give us Cortez's address-"

"How can you keep working on the differential?" Masters questioned again, her voice spiking up as she stepped forward spreading her arms. "House is lying in a bed, the police are messing with his stuff and want to question him again…how can you just go on as if nothing happened?"

"Told ya," Chase muttered in a long sigh, looking over at Foreman, who rolled his eyes at him then gave Masters a condescending look.

"House doesn't need medical attention, not ours," he stated, hopping down from the pool table. "He doesn't need to be diagnosed, his life is not in danger. On the other hand, our patient's might if we don't figure out what he has. So far symptoms aren't that bad but it's a deadly combination, and we can't take the risk to wait for something to change."

"I don't get this," the young woman protested again, causing Taub and Chase to exchange a quick amused and resigned look. "You were all there, defending him and the way he treats you with the detective. Why can't you show a bit of concern-"

"Being worried for House is useless most of the time, and there's nothing we can do for him right now. Trust me," Foreman told her with a knowing voice, his words reinforced by Taub and Chase's firm nods. "The best thing we can do for him is our job."

"But-"

"Investigating his aggression is not our job. Curing Cortez is," Taub added.

House might have been hospitalized and his conditions were far from being reassuring, but his life wasn't at risk. Well, unless they'd screwed with the morphine again. Cuddy and Wilson were already taking care of him, besides: they knew better. Taking care of House was something that required skills they didn't have. On the other hand, they were doctors, good doctors, and they had all the right equipment to take care of Jaime Cortez.

House might have been a case himself. But not one it was up to them to solve.

"And we're gonna let this go, just like this?"

"There's nothing to "let go"," Chase explained, he stood up and sunk his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shrugging. "Believe it or not, he'd like better to know we're working on our case than wasting our time worrying about him."

"And we'd better get this one done, soon," Foreman agreed as he opened the patient's folder again, then added mumbling. "I can hear him already, bragging about how useless we are without him."

"Don't worry, more likely he'd been asking about the patient himself if he could."

Taub's almost sweet reassurance didn't leave Masters quite convince. But then the three men went back discussing possible causes of Cortez's symptoms, and the woman realized she had two options. Keep trying to tickle their guilt muscles, smashing repeatedly on a wall of indifference, or sail with the flow. If anything, try to do her job would have given her the chance not to be mocked for everything she said.

"Joint pain, chronic fatigue," she pitched in absently, browsing the folder and shaking her head, trying her best to give it a shot. "Could be lupus."

At her words, everybody's eyes landed on her. Feeling embarrassed and almost about to blush, or scream at them to stop, Masters took a deep breath with her head still down on the folder. She looked up eventually, not sure what those gazes were supposed to say. The men seemed shocked but also amused, a small grin forming on Foreman and Chase's lips. Then Taub broke the odd silence, with a fake "proud daddy's" voice.

"Oh, that's heartbreaking," he said mockingly, gesturing to bring his hands to his heart. "Her first lupus suggestion, and House just missed it."

As she had quickly learned to do, Masters kept her mouth closed, swallowing behind sealed lips another bitter lump of pride, and thinking she should eally learn how to detect sarcasm if she wanted to survive in that job. She couldn't know "it's never lupus" was one of House's most valuable mottos, but if there was one thing she had soon picked up was how to stomach failures.

So she just put Taub comment's in the already a crowded drawer of learned lessons, shrugged and traced a line on the word lupus erasing it from her very personal list. They went on with the differential, until two things came out. Heavy metal poison was by then the best option, and in order to elaborate it they would have needed to question the patient. With some luck, they would have gotten some honest and useful answers, and they knew detective Sawyer wanted to question House again. That alone wouldn't have been a big deal, and none of their business actually, but there was more to it. During the previous colloquium, Sawyer had been looking for something to confirm his theory, but apparently House's answers had led him in another direction. As a good cop he needed to dig deeper, unfortunately in that case it meant he needed House's mind to be cleared and free from morphine numbing his memory.

"But," Masters babbled, their case tossed aside in a corner of her mind once again. "He can't stay awake without drugs, he's in pain."

"I guess he knows that," Chase muttered knowingly. If it came to pain, House was the one to ask. "But apparently he doesn't care."

"You mean he agreed!" Masters asked, her voice spiking up again, simply shocked her boss might have been so inconsiderate to risk his life. But apparently she wasn't aware of House's methods, or she would have never asked what followed. "And Cuddy let him do it?"

"Why shouldn't she? It's not her call."

"Are you serious? She is-"

"His girlfriend?" Taub with a small shrug. "His boss? How can any of these prevent him from doing what he wants?"

When she opened her mouth, Masters knew she wanted to say. Seriously, her mind was full of words and good reasons why House shouldn't have done it, or explanations for Cuddy to stop him. But once her mouth was open, air to breathe sucked everything away.

Taub was right.

Cuddy might have been the one capable of altering House's actions. But that didn't mean she always wanted to.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hello! Ready for a change of pace? As I said before – or at least I think I did – the title of this story comes from the fact we will be go back and forth inside and outside out House's mind. Time to have another peak in his head: he's been through a lot already, and this is effecting him deeply. Hope you'll like it, I know it can be difficult to read._

* * *

11

_Are you out of your mind?_

_**God I hope not! It's the only thing I have left.**_

_Then why did you agree to do that?_

_**What the fuck are you talking about? Why not?**_

_Because you're gonna be in pain, you stupid asshole._

_**I already am, genius.**_

_This is nothing, nothing compared to what you'll feel, and you know that. You're a doctor, and other than this you're an expert when it comes to pain. Do you really need me to remind you?_

_**I can handle this.**_

_You think you can._

_**I can. I've been dealing with pain for years.**_

_Yes, with Vicodin congesting your veins-_

_**I'll bear it. Now shut the fuck up.**_

_What are you exactly trying to prove here? That you're a thoug guy? About that, did you really think you could make it, two against one?_

_**I had to try something.**_

_Oh you did. You put up a nice fight, too bad you couldn't stand a chance. That was pathetic._

_**There's nothing pathetic in giving it a chance.**_

_Where the hell does that come from? Thought you gave up on therapy! Geez, they really banged your head bad, uh?_

_**I said shut up. Get the hell out of my head!**_

_Are you trying to impress her? The woman who hasn't even come to see you once?_

_**I don't want her to, I'm not ready…she knows it. She knows me.**_

_Yeah, keep dreaming._

_**I don't want her to see me like this. I can barely stand Wilson-**_

_He's your friend, he's worried about you._

_**He's always worried about me. About everybody actually.**_

_This time he had all the reason to be, don't you think?_

_**No, no I don't. I know what I'm doing, it's my call.**_

_A stupid one._

_**Nobody asked your opinion.**_

_Oh really? I'm your subconscious, in case you forgot._

_**Yeah about that…how come, for once when I don't have to deal with a whining Wilson fussing about my decisions, I have to be annoyed by you?**_

_Because you need someone to keep you in line. You always do._

_**I have to do this, they need it-**_

_They don't. You just want to convince yourself they do, you don't want to feel powerless… What? No answer about this?_

_**They need my testimony to understand what happened…where the hell are you when I watch Law and Order? They're hanging in the dark, they need me to give them a head start. They have to know who did this to me.**_

_You don't know who did it._

_**I know they're related to my patient. They had the same clothes and…it's important.**_

_For who?_

_**For the police. I don't want them to follow the wrong trail and waste time. And for me, ok? It's important, to me.**_

_Why?_

_**Because it doesn't make sense, ok? My patient is their boss's brother, and they came after me. They scared the shit out of me, and it doesn't make any sense.**_

_So this is what it's always about with you? Meaning? Logic?_

_**Damn straight it is! They almost killed me, for all I know I might end up even more crippled. There must an explanation for this.**_

_Or you just want it be, explainable? So you can give it a name, a reason, a fitting label?_

_**What's wrong with that? It happened once already, someone tried to kill me and I've never found out why.**_

_You do realize, the majority of people wouldn't want to know?_

_**Have we met? I'm not like the majority of people. I want to know…I need to understand, so maybe next time I can prevent this from happening to me again.**_

_How? By being…kind?_

_**Less of an asshole, should be enough.**_

_Why? Can't you see the paradox? Being a jerk explains why people would want to hurt you. What if you stop being a jerk and, it still happens?_

_**This is not the point. Don't try to mess with me.**_

_I'm your subconscious. This is just you, messing with yourself._

_**Can we go back to complaining about my decision to testify drug free?**_

_Will you change your mind?_

_**No.**_

_Then I'd rather mock you, if you don't mind._

_**I do mind…you know what? I don't, really. I already decided, I won't change my mind about this and whatever the consequences, I'm ready to face them.**_

_How selfish of you._

_**Selfish? Because I want those who almost killed me to go to jail?**_

_Selfish because you think it's just your call._

_**It is.**_

_But you won't be the only one paying the consequences. What about Wilson?_

_**What does this have to do with Wilson?! And he'd feel responsible anyway, he's such a guilty vampire.**_

_Do you think it was fun for him, having to shock you heart back to life? How do you think he'll feel, if something goes wrong again?_

_**This isn't about Wilson.**_

_Ok, so this isn't about your best friend, the one how had been your rock over the years and keeps coming back to you every time you need him. Then what about Cuddy? Oh yeah, your girlfriend. How do you think she feels?_

_**She gets me. She understands…she always does.**_

_With your life on the line? I don't remember her being that happy when you chose DBS-_

_**That was different! We are different now.**_

_You know, Wilson had probably ran to her complaining about your decision. More likely he's convincing her to stop you._

_**Good luck to him, convince her to convince me? He knows better.**_

_You don't think he would try?_

_**Of course he would, he's Wilson! But make it, not so much.**_

_So you think._

_**Yes, I think so. She sees what Wilson fails to see.**_

_That you're crazy?_

_**That there are things I need to do, no matter the outcomes.**_

_Then you're both crazy._

_**Maybe….maybe, but that's why we work.**_

_Madness isn't something you can build a relationship on._

_**It's not about madness. It's about understanding.**_

_Wow, they should give you more of this morphine. It really makes you look like a funny guy!_

_**You're right, because it also makes me see your true colors. You're a pain in the ass!**_

_I'm you, after all._

_**Then you should agree with me.**_

_You're not even sure you want to do this._

_**I am, I'm scared of it but I am sure.**_

_Fear should teach you something._

_**Yes, it does. That sometimes it's a good feeling, that whatever scares you might be worth a try, that you can't always stepping back. I'm tired to step back…I'm tired…**_


	12. Chapter 12

_I have a special thanks for the reader who spent what I think being a lot of time, going through the latest chapters and fixing some mistakes and typos I left. (I'd love to say the name but I am not sure this person would want me to, and I can't reply to the messages in private). I was glad to see the previous chapter did well: I love that style and it's going to come back._

_As for now, here's a new part!_

* * *

12

There had been a time, the dean of medicine's office was a dangerous place. A very specific day, when a desperate sick man had pulled out a gun, menacing people to get a diagnosis. It had been a rough day for PPTH, but since then Cuddy's office had been nothing but the boss's room, the watchful promontory from which she ruled the ship. Until the day Dr. House had been almost killed. Until the moment detective Sawyer had told her and Wilson he needed House to be out of drugs, to get a valuable interrogatory. Until Cuddy and the oncologist had found out to have more than just divergent opinions on whether let the cop have his way with House or not.

Nurses passing by the door, closed along with the blinds, could hear both doctor's voices spiking up alternatively. They didn't envy them, neither of them. As doctors and nurses, they were all accustomed to similar situations. Still, they were glad it wasn't up to them to make such a call. And knowing nobody would have asked them, made it extremely easier to stay as far as they could from the epicenter of the decision.

Inside the office, forced to follow the discussion from the closest point of view ever, Sawyer sat on the couch watching the two doctors arguing. He could see where they came from, both of them. But both arguments were getting old and repetitive, while what he needed was the final green light to go ahead. He needed to question House again, the doctor gave him confused answers, and he needed confirmation before reducing his theory into a fallen card's castle.

According to House's testify, his attackers looked like members of Black Calaveras. It didn't make sense to him, not since he believed MP were responsible for the assault. In addition, apparently they've said something to Dr. House and he needed to know what it was. But he couldn't just question House again, his answers were confused because of the drugs he was on. Knowing there was something useful inside the doctor's mind, he had to make sure those information came out clear and lucid enough to be reliable for a judge. It was a crappy situation all right, he could see why so much struggling in letting him go further. But he could hardly see the problem, since Dr. House had already given his approval.

Which seemed to be the point both Wilson and Cuddy kept forgetting.

"I can't believe it Cuddy, seriously!" Wilson blurted out loud, resting his hand on his hips and glaring at her disappointed. "You're a doctor for God's sake! You don't need me to tell you much pain House will feel if we take him off of morphine."

"No I don't. And for the record, he's a doctor too. He knows what he's doing-"

"He was the first time, and he almost died…damn it! He's always sure, every time he does something crazy jeopardizing his health," the oncologist stated drily, standing in the middle of the room. "Cuddy, he's not in himself. He needs to rest, and we have to find a balance between his pain and the risk of overdue with medication."

"Here's where you're wrong Wilson. It's not we, it's not up to us," Cuddy explained flatly, her hissing voice telling Sawyer she was sick of repeating that as much as he was of hearing it. "You're right. He did what he wanted, and he almost died. But no matter this, he wants to try again. Does this tell you something about it?"

"Yes. That your boyfriend is insane, and you don't give a damn about it!"

Sawyer had already seen enough of the two doctor's interaction to know the man's words came mainly out of frustration. But what he didn't expect to see, was the dark shadow passing on the woman's face. He frowned, apparently the oncologist's statement had touched a weak spot, and the cop found himself leaning forward and hoping what he had just seen was not a second thought on what was so far his best ally. But then Cuddy looked in his direction, grounding him to his seat with a confident glare which showed no signs of hesitation.

"What do you need exactly?" She asked, causing Wilson's jaw to drop on the floor.

"Cuddy," he tried to step in, but Sawyer wasn't willing to let his chance go and stood up quickly.

"I'll keep it as short as I can, but there are things I need him to clarify. If his attackers are from Black Calaveras, that bring a new element in the investigation. I need more details."

"You're thinking about ask him for an identikit?"

"Damn it Cuddy! Can you please listen to me?"

"If," Sawyer urged to answer, feeling bad for Wilson who was clearly losing the battle. "If he saw the faces and can give us a description-"

"How can he give you a description with a tube down his throat?" The oncologist muttered nastily, folding his arms. "Blink two for short and three for long hair?"

Sawyer gave Wilson a quick look but soon ignored him, while Cuddy gave him an angry glare.

"We can wait for the description. But Dr. House hinted they said something to him- Dr Wilson," the detective said with an abrupt change, addressing straight to him. "I know he's your friend, and you're worried for him. I was there with you, it scared the hell out of me, and I don't even know him… But you were there too, and you know he has something to say. I hate to admit it, but without his information I can't build up a case. I can't even legally open the investigation, unless I get something solid out of him-"

"He's tied down to a hospital bed with more broken bones than teeth in his mouth!" Wilson yelled exasperated throwing his hands up in the air.

"And we'll never find out who did this to him, if I can't ask him."

Sawyer's words didn't surprise him. The same argument had popped out more than once, and Wilson had seen it coming. But what closed his mouth for good, wasn't the detective's lame attempt of circling him. What left the oncologist speechless and defeated, was a simple look at the two deployments: Cuddy and Sawyer on one side and himself, lonely and weaponless, on the other one. He was done, whether he had really thought he could make it or not, he had felt he had to try looking out for House. But in that moment, he felt he had no more cards to play.

Defeated, Wilson sighed and looked down shaking his head, his shoulders falling down on the heavy weight of his impotence.

"Fine," he finally muttered, then looked back up and pointed at both of them with his finger. "But I'm not going to remove the tube. I don't care how, but find a way not to make him talk."

Sawyer thought better to keep his triumphant face for himself. He had just gotten his green light, and didn't want to mess with it any longer. Dr. Cuddy didn't seem the kind of woman who could change her mind easily, but Dr. Wilson did look like one of those guys: tireless when it came to annoy you, to subtly get what they want. Trying to keep his cool, he turned quickly toward Cuddy and gave her a thankful nod. Then, while fishing for the phone in his pockets, he explained the two doctors he would have settled everything up and called a qualified agent to get pictures of House's injuries. That said, sure not waiting for them to add anything else, Sawyer left the room leaving the two doctors sharing a deep and awkward silence.

Once the door was closed, Cuddy stood up and walked toward Wilson. When she touched his shoulder, his whole back tensed and stiffened. Biting at her lip to repress a disconsolate sigh, Cuddy removed her hand but didn't step back.

"Wilson I know you're worried for the pain. This is an impossible situation for all of us-"

"Is it, Cuddy? It really is?" Wilson whispered in a low voice, slowly turning around to give her an oblique look full of resentment.

"What," she babbled shaking her head, confused and stepping away from him. "Of course it is, between the pain and the morphine's risk it's a dead-end, House is-"

"What?" The oncologist asked again in a low hiss, completely turning around and landing his accusing eyes on her. "House is what? How can you know Cuddy? You haven't been there with him, not even for a second."

"I had to take care of the rest Wilson," Cuddy answered quickly, hoping the way her chin jerked up proudly didn't betray her. "I'd love not to, but the hospital doesn't stop because of-"

"And neither does the dean, apparently," he insisted with a hard voice, then stepped close to her and Cuddy knew he could smell her weakness. "Marina, your daughter, House's team, police, the board…you've found time for everybody. Time for everything but stop by at his room. Is it…if it's too hard for you to see him like that, why don't you just say it? Instead of acting like you don't care? I understand Cuddy, but be honest-"

"This is not the point Wilson," she cut him off, quickly running away from him and placing her office, her nervous hands fidgeting with random papers on her desk. "You don't understand."

"Then enlighten me Cuddy. Please do," he teased her sarcastically. "What's the point? The bandages? You can't stand the view? Or it's about the stitches? Maybe you don't like them. Or what? The bruises ruining his face?"

"Wilson, don't-"

"Don't what? You didn't even ask me how it went. Don't you want to know how his face went pale when he lost consciousness because of the heart attack? How harmless he looked, confused as Sawyer questioned him? Let me ask you something Cuddy," Wilson said then, feeling rage rising inside him. "Don't you feel a bit hypocrite? You told me to wake up Amber, you," he pointed an accusing finger at her. "You convinced me to wake up my dying girlfriend to tell her goodbye. I had to hold her and look right in her face the moment she realized she was dying, and you can't even go see your boyfriend. You don't even try-"

"Because it's not about me Wilson," Cuddy cut him off in a low resigned voice, the defeat and pain he sensed in her voice underlined by the way she sat heavily on the couch. "I want to, I really do," she sighed and looked up at him with a bitter smile. "I just don't think he can stand it, me seeing him like that."

"Cuddy," he urged to say sitting down next to her, suddenly feeling like shit. "You've always been there at his lowest. Every time his health and life had been in danger you've had a first row seat-"

"But that was before. He had never mind friends being there but…I was there with Stacey, and I know he hated to be seen like that. I know how he resented her for pitying him afterwards. You know him," Cuddy said, then she sighed and shrugged as that simple sentence said it all. "I don't care how many broken bones he had, or how long it will take him to feel better or what he'll need me to do. He's a strong son of a bitch, but I can't see him until he's ready for it. You can't make me feel bad for this Wilson, I'm sorry. I do think if he wants to do it, he has the right to," she smiled again, and this time it was a real genuine smile as she took his hand. "But you can blame me as much as you want for asking you to be the one staying with him when he gets what he asked for."


	13. Chapter 13

_Another tough chapter for you, brave readers. House is about to get what he wanted…point it, does he really wants what he will get?_

* * *

13

_No, no please let me sleep. Just a little longer, we have time for that… No, can't we wait?_

It was more likely the most shameless prayer he have ever said. Good thing nobody was there, inside his head, to hear it. Not that anybody would have believed it anyway. Gregory House begging to sleep, to get anything, and he had a hard time admitting it with himself too.

But he felt his chest still weighing heavily on him, his ribcage hurt at every struggled breathe. He could almost smell his skin, slightly burned where the paddles had shocked him, and despite his ears were whistling too loud for him to hear, House knew he was waking up. Or being woken up, to be more precise. He was needed, and for a moment, remembering his "almost" trip to death land, he regretted his decision to give a drug free testimony. First time he had woken up after the crisis, a not so happy Wilson had told him what police wanted from him. The shock and disappointment on the oncologist's face spoke loud, he was not happy at all with his decision. To be entirely honest, once he slowly came back to his senses and realized he had agreed the be taken off meds to give a proper answer to the detective, House thought it might haven't been his best idea ever. But no matter that, he didn't see why he shouldn't have done it.

A few minutes were all he needed, with the right questions he could have told the cop what he had to. All he had to do was hold on for a while, and then he wouldn't have been bothered anymore. Pain scared him, but he was confident he could have handled it long enough to get it done, and then just let Wilson drawn him into morphine. All he had to do was hold on and fight, just bear it and then-

_Oh no! God not this, they didn't tell me about this!_

He was still unable to move his neck, much because of the intubation, and didn't get to see the detective's face till he leaned down on him. Explaining with a calm voice the man next to him was a photographer.

_The camera kind of gives it away,_ House growled sarcastically to himself, his tongue actually itching to say that out loud and get any kind of control on his life one way or the other. And it was about to get even worst. The detective explained to him the photographer was there to take pictures of his injuries, to be added to the documentation. It was a useless clarification, and House hated when people around him felt the need to state the obvious. Not to mention how it pissed him off, being spoken like to a four years old child. But since he couldn't tell the man what he really thought, House had to just blink once to tell him he had gotten the message. The answer he repeated, when Sawyer told him Wilson would have helped him move if he needed. The second isolated blink didn't come out as steady as he wanted, being tossed around like a fresh fished fish to be exposed like a trophy wasn't a nice perspective. But before he could figure out what he disliked the most between the two, Wilson's hands had taken care of the sheets.

Close his eyes was all he could do, and it took him a little bit too much. He wasn't quick enough to close them before they could catch a glimpse of his own body. His beaten, devastated body. Wrapped in calves and bandages, wounds and bruises poking from the free portions of his skin. Despite the fact he was still on drugs, House didn't fail to recognize some of his injuries, fractures mainly, and he gulped down nervously thinking how much some of them would have hurt. Still nothing, nothing could have hurt as much and deep as look at his own, unrecognizable body.

Nausea took over his stomach and House shut his eyes closed, his mind desperately trying to alienate himself completely from what was going on around him. Wilson's hands exposing his wounds, and offering them to lens of the camera. The lack of response of his limbs, when his brain ordered them to run away and hide to avoid the humiliation. The merciless barrage of flashes falling on him, like bullets out of a machine gun.

That couldn't be true, that couldn't be him, it couldn't be happening to him. He hated being helped, and that went beyond it. Being handled like a fragile porcelain doll by his best friend, was the most humiliating thing that could have happened to him, and he couldn't even beg for it to stop.

He barely heard Wilson warning him he was about to open his hospital gown and check his thorax. House kept his eyes closed, hoping that way the oncologist couldn't see how ashamed he was, and for the first time he found a reason to be thankful for being unable to move his head. If anything, he couldn't shake his head no and tell him to stop. He couldn't have anyway, he felt so ashamed even asking for that torture to end was something he couldn't afford.

_No, please don't…don't do that-_

Two pairs of hands were now moving around him, Wilson's ones revealing his right leg and stranger ones maneuvering to get him into a sitting position. He couldn't scream for pain, but his body stiffened at the movement eloquently enough and Wilson urged to push the photographer away. House could sense the anger in his friend's voice as he warned the photographer to be more careful, and it was yet another nail in the coffin of his pride. Knowing someone needed to defend him like that, being unable to do it himself, made him both thankful and resentful toward the oncologist.

Was he really that lame? To the point he needed the king of wuss to tell a stranger how to handle is sore ass? Because if that was the case, he could live with the fact Cuddy wasn't there much better.

Eventually, the shame parade ended. One angle after the other, House's body was caught on camera. With the due differences, part of his brain wondered if raped women felt the same way he did, violated and harmless even more than the real moment they've been hurt. The fulfilling sensation of freedom he felt once they put him back down to lie on the bed didn't last long. Whatever relief it might had given him, disappeared when Wilson leaned down on him, announcing with a serious voice he was about to take his medication off. The oncologist did add a last recommendation hoping he could change his mind, but to be honest he didn't wait long for an answer and soon pulled out the key of the drug dispenser.

_Ok, here we go,_ House thought as his friend did what he had to. He closed his eyes and laid still, trying to relax as much as he could and not thinking about what was about to happen. _It can't be that bad, it's just pain after all. No stranger, right? I'm used to pain, I can deal with it, it won't take long Oh that is quick, he barely turned it off and…shit!_ He jolted up a little when a first, sadly familiar wave of pain detonated in his right thigh. _Ok, not that bad, it's just my damn leg. It simply hadn't hurt so much recently, it hadn't been that bad… Holy shit, why does my chest hurt so much? Oh yeah, the lung…God bless you Wilson! Oh my God, my head is about to explode, what did they do to me? Glass crashing, I remember… This is not good, every inch of my body hurts, it can't be true. My arms, why do they hurt so much? My leg, wasn't it already painful enough what…Oh God please, I can't stand this for long, so much pain…I don't want to, I'm not ready for this. Let's do this please, for God's sake Colombo, ask what you have to, oh my Lord it hurts, everything hurts, so much…no more please, no more…_


	14. Chapter 14

14

If it would have been possible take an image of pain, a picture or a more effective handmade painting, that would have sure been House's face. Wilson had no doubt about it, he was impressed by how fast morphine ceased to pervade House's body with his numbing effect. The oncologist saw it on his friend's face, getting worse and worse within seconds in every detail of his expression.

Wilson could see that House wasn't expecting that amount of pain. At first he was just lying there, with his eyes closed, but he soon opened them wandering around, vainly looking for something that anyway couldn't have done nothing to stop the painful tide from washing inside him. An animal that was what House looked like to him. He saw his friend's body jerk and shiver because of the painful signals leaving marks all over him, a wild animal once used to ride free and be the owner of his habitat, now reduced to a powerless and whimpering bundle of fur with sharp metallic teeth of a trap chewing his paw.

"Whatever you have to do," Wilson gave his back to House and spoke to Sawyer, with his voice firm but low not to have House listen how worried he was. "Do it fast. I don't think he can bear this long."

Sawyer was not a doctor, he'd never been sick and he had never watched a TV show about medicine. But he didn't need any of that knowledge to tell Dr. House was going through an excruciating pain. He was sweating, it was undeniable that thin translucent layer of wetness wasn't there when he was on drugs, and he looked like he was about to cry. No, he clearly couldn't have bear it long, and Sawyer felt he owed the doctor a quick and as accurate as he could interrogatory. It was all he could do, to pay him back for his effort.

Of course, the ultimate goal was to secure the son of bitches who had done that to him a long and hopefully unpleasant stay behind bars.

"Dr. House, can you hear me?" He asked then, House struggled but blinked once to answer him. "I know you can't talk, I can give you something to write. You think you can try?"

As messed up as he was, House tried to nod forgetting he was not supposed to, but he was soon reminded of that by the grief exploding in his neck. His upper body stiffened in protest, and he had to sink his teeth in the plastic of the tube waiting for the unpleasant sensation to go away. It didn't, but at least it faded enough to allow him to blink once in approval. As quick as he could, and because of that hurry fumbling too much with it, Sawyer urged to take out of his pocket a pocketbook and a pen. He turned toward Wilson for a quick consultation, and the oncologist nodded at House's right hand, then the cop carefully adjusted the pen between the doctor's fingers. The pen felt so heavy in his hand House was almost shocked by it, but also reassured by the evidence of the touch. He still had no idea how long he had been in that bed, but he did know he hadn't been able to trust his own feelings, thoughts and body in a long time. And the concrete sensation of that small object on his skin felt so real it almost made him cry.

But he had to man up, Sawyer was repeating his first question for the second time and he still had to find the right grip on the pen. Once he felt it steady enough, both bones in his wrist howling sorely, House looked over at the detective inviting him to ask again.

"I asked you if you think your attackers appeared to be from a street gang, you remember?" House blinked once, even holding the pen was painful and he was determined to use it the less he could. "But you weren't clear in your answer. You think they were of the same gang of your patient, Jaime Cortez?" He blinked again, pain making his answer quick and determined. "Are you sure about this?"

House thought about blinking one more time, but his mind was clear as much as his body was drug free. He knew the main reason he was going through that torture, was that the man up there needed the most accurate and precise answers he could. Gripping the pen, House stretched his hand the better he could to reach the pocketbook Sawyer was holding out to him. The first and the second letter he wrote came out crooked because of his trembling hand, so he gathered his energies and went on. Once he had done, his hand fell heavily on the bed, the effort for that simple gesture spreading all over in his body, and he tried to recover while Sawyer tried to decipher the message.

"Same clothes," Wilson said, translating his friend's handwriting, then frowned. "What does it mean?"

"Gangs usually wear the same outfit, like a uniform. It's a matter of membership." Sawyer muttered thoughtfully, then looked down at House. "Black shirt, short sleeves with a white spot and a black skeleton in it?"

By the way House blinked yes at his question, almost enthusiastically, it was clear he had no doubts about the fact his attackers belonged to Black Calaveras. The determination in the doctor's eyes, the way he was fiercely fighting his questioning gaze despite the obvious pain caused Sawyer to be both sure about the answer, and pissed because that confirmation was the last spike on the coffin of his theory.

"Why do you think they came after you?" Sawyer asked, neither House nor Wilson liking the whining note in his disappointed voice. "Your patient is the boss's brother, why would they hurt the doctor who's taking care of him?"

Out of nowhere, House found the strength to roll his eyes at him. Maybe he should have reconsidered his esteem for the detective after all… He could barely remember what they did to him, how was he supposed to know why they did it? Find out that was police's job, not his. He motioned with the pen to Sawyer, and he handled him the pocketbook. The doctor urged to write something despite the aching pain in his wrist and whole body, and this time the cop didn't need any translation for the simple "no idea" he had written. His answer sure wasn't the one Sawyer had hoped for, but there was really nothing he could do about it. It wasn't like he had taken his time to ask them, in between a kick in his groin and a punch on his face-

Godamnit impulsive reaction! Oh he paid for that, he stretched his whole arm trying to reach for Sawyer's coat, and lost the grip around the pen when he grabbed the garment and pulled to get his attention. Not only his wrist and arm, but his whole being echoed with excruciating pain. He felt a little movement of nausea in his stomach, but at least no signs of an upcoming heart attack.

"What?" Sawyer asked confused.

"House, what are you doing? Lay down!" Wilson said stepping in, he held his friend's shoulders and pushed him down on the bed, before he could move too much and rip the tube out of his throat. "Be careful!"

"He's trying to say something-"

"You're supposed to be the one asking!" The oncologist pointed out angrily, struggling to keep his friend down and finally meeting his eyes. He was imploring him to get his message, then he finally sighed and said to Sawyer. "Give him that pen again."

The detective ignored the hissing dislike in his voice and picked up the pen, he gave it back to House and stuck the pocketbook as close as he could. He had to hold it steady as House wrote, whatever it was it had to be damn important to him. But once he'd done and Sawyer looked at it he frowned, clueless.

"Let him die?" he muttered confused, reading out loud what House had so laboriously graved on the paper. His confusion passed on to Wilson, the oncologist looked at the message but there was really nothing to be mistaken "What is this, Dr. House?"

With visible pain all over his face, House waved the pen to get the pocketbook back, and this time his message made more sense.

"That's what they told you?" House blinked once, praying God he wouldn't have need to write again. "Let him die…your patient?" House blinked again, but the cop shook his head looking over at Wilson, puzzled "This doesn't make any sense—"

Pain.

Tricky thing about pain, he had come to learn in years of close frequentation, is that it takes a while to kick in for real. Sometimes it starts as nothing, a little itching sensation somewhere in your body that you can get rid of with a brush of your hand. Then it grows, you keep telling yourself it's nothing but it gets bigger and bigger. Till the point you realize it would be delusional to tell yourself there's none. The same thing was happening to him, it had started bad but stay focused on what he had to do have pushed the pain back a little. Then, while Wilson and Sawyer kept talking, House suddenly felt it all. For the first time in years, the pain in his leg was the last of his problems. There wasn't a single inch of his body that didn't hurt, and the fact Sawyer didn't believe him sure didn't help.

He hadn't agreed to give up on the drugs to be judged unreliable no matter what. Sawyer had to man up, accept he was wrong and trust him.

"You're saying you made me take him off meds for nothing?" Wilson was saying, pissed and obviously careless of the authority standing right before him.

"I'm sorry Dr. Wilson. I really thought it could work- What the fuck!"

As he felt something try to reach for his gun, Sawyer's first reaction was to slap it away, only to find himself hitting House's weightless and weak hand. That didn't seem to stop the doctor, his right hand gasped in the air again and Sawyer gave him back the pocketbook. His lack of enthusiasm was washed away by the way House literally ripped off his hands the note pad. Puzzled, Wilson and Sawyer watched him oddly hold the pocketbook with his casted arms. The energies he put into writing, scared and amazed them at the same time. House didn't wait for them to take the pocketbook, but showed it to them. Wilson needed all his knowledge of his friend's hand writing to get the words, but still it didn't make much sense to him.

"Video?" He read, then shook his head. "House, they checked the security videos, there's nothing-"

He was pissed. Wilson knew how House looked like when he was, and he could tell he was extremely frustrated by how they kept failing to understand him. Growling his rage and pain, House wrote down something else, every letter hurting and burning like salt on open wounds but he had to. He would have had time to rest and heal after, if only they-

"Computer…your computer?" Wilson asked again reading his note, but the oncologist was still clueless. "House, I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about- Hei! What are you doing?"

His hands moved faster than his mouth, they had to when House tried to get rid of the straps holding the tube to his mouth. To his major shock, Wilson had to fight him. He was beaten all over like scrambled eggs, still he seemed determined to give him a hard time, fidgeting against him apparently careless of the soreness every movement evoked. The fact he didn't care didn't mean grief wasn't there, what that sudden rush of adrenaline had caused him couldn't be strong enough to erase the pain and Wilson hoped his pressure to keep him down could dissuade him. But it was a vain hope, as the oncologist soon found out. And knowing he was probably doing nothing but add pain to him he, had to change strategy. He quickly made the call, questioning was over, and he put a definite end to it with a dose of sedative strong enough to knock down the fighting lion right beneath him.


End file.
